


three in a row

by Acai



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternative Title: Connor Gets A Service Dog, Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Connor Deserves Happiness, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions are Hard But Homicides and Dogs are Fun, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Service Dogs, Sumo is a good boy, anxiety disorders
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-05 23:32:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15181754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acai/pseuds/Acai
Summary: “He’s going to be beneficial to the case.”“You can’t bring a dog to a homicide,” Hank protested, mourning the amount of dog hair that was undoubtedly getting on his seats as Sumo jumped in.———As Connor’s anxieties continue to worsen with time, he finds a solution.





	1. —

**Author's Note:**

> This one’s only five parts, so ideally it will be complete within the week. 
> 
> Also, my laptop is out of comission until further notice, so I had to figure out how to write and post this on mobile devices. 10/10 don’t recommend. This is a mess, I’m sorry. 
> 
> My request box is open: 12am.tumblr.com

There had been a time when Hank had thought that androids couldn’t feel. Connor, in all his straight-faced sternness, hadn’t really helped that idea. But, as sure as his personality was stern, there had always been little things that gave him away.

His mercy, for one. Always too much mercy. That, along with his clearly-not-for-the-case desire to know more and more about Hank. So, really, even before Connor had deviated, he’d always seemed a little human. He’d been designed that way, though. It was always hard to believe it was anything other than really good integration coding.

Before, anyway.

That only made it so much harder to see Connor now, curled up with his head on his knees and trebling, and see him as anything other than completely sentient and alive.

So Connor shook and Hank fretted, because jeez, what were you supposed to do for an android having a breakdown?

“Hank,” Connor rasped, and Hank stopped worrying and just did.

He shifted, puffing out a sharp breath of air as his back knocked against the wall. Hank reached up and grabbed a blanket off of the couch with one hand. The other hand came to rest on Connor’s back, rubbing small circles into the faux skin.

“Blanket,” Hank grunted, and Connor’s hands shook like an earthquake as he reached up to grab it. Hank helped him to situate it to drape off of his shoulders, still at a loss for what to do. So he just stayed.

Connor hiccuped loudly, and from across the room Sumo glanced up to cock his head and whine. At Connor’s next noisy sob, Sumo barked loudly enough to shake the walls.

“Sumo!” Hank scolded, but didn’t miss the way Connor was now peeking at the huge dog with watery eyes and a blue-tipped nose.

With a heavy sigh, Hank relented. “Sumo, come.”

The dog bounded up, tackling Connor and licking all over his face. Hank was getting ready to scold him for climbing all over him until the kid let out a shaky laugh.

Lifting his head for the first time since Hank had sat down—hell, the kid looked exhausted—Connor pressed his face into Sumo’s side. Hank kept rubbing circles into his back, and Connor kept himself pressed against the dog until his shaking subsided and his breathing evened out. Even after he had calmed down, he stayed like that for a while. And then, after what must have been ours, his head lifted again to look Hank in the eyes.

Hank knew, logically, that androids didn’t need sleep, but damn did the kid look exhausted.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” he greeted slowly, hands buried in Sumo’s fur.

  
“Hi,” Hank replied, voice flat. And then, a tad more gently, “how are you?”

  
“My nose feels clogged,” Connor reported. “And my Thirium regulator feels as if it’s going too fast. I believe I was experiencing an overload to my systems due to—“

  
“An anxiety attack, Connor,” Hank cut him off.

  
“I don’t feel anxiety,” the android muttered, but Hank could tell he knew that wasn’t true when he averted his eyes.

  
Hank scoffed. “Bullshit. You feel shit, whether you like it or not.”

  
“I don’t like it.” His voice fell flat and he pressed his face back into Sumo’s fur.

  
“Aw, hell, Connor. You’re just thinking of the bad emotions.” When the kid didn’t reply, Hank continued coaxing him. “You like work, right? And hot chocolate? That dumb TV show you watch every night? You like those nerds in New Jericho, too.”

  
“Sumo,” came Connor’s muffled addition.

  
“And Sumo,” Hank agreed. “D’ya know what made you anxious?”

  
“My feelings.”

  
“No shit, Sherlock.”

  
“Connor,” he corrected glumly. “And I was anxious because I was nervous about my feeling emotions. I never know how I feel, or what to do about it. And I’m not supposed to feel, anyway, so I feel a bad emotion when I do—,”

  
“Guilt. Keep going.”

  
“I feel...guilt when I do, because I deviated. I’m—worried?—because I feel, and I don’t want to be decommissioned for my deviance.”

  
“They won’t decommission you, first of all. That’s illegal now, anyway, and they’d—,”

  
“Why am I so different, Lieutenant?”

  
Hank paused, gaping slightly in confusion. “The hell does that mean?”

  
“The others don’t struggle with their emotions. They just...feel.” Connor’s fingers were working their way through Sumo’s fur still.

  
“Because you’re not ‘others.’ You’re Connor.” And hell, this felt like a conversation he had a long time ago, with a much younger kid. “You’re alive, and that makes you all different. This is your personality, and there’s nothing wrong with it just because it’s not the same. Personalities and emotions are the fuckin’ price we all have to pay for being alive.”

  
Connor was quiet for a stretch, and then sighed heavily.  
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said.

  
“Don’t fuckin’ thank me—,”

  
“And thank you, Sumo,” Connor gave the St. Bernard a single pat on the head.  
______________________  
As much as Hank would have liked to say that Connor’s worsening anxieties weren’t an issue, his freak outs were beginning to follow him even to the work field. Homicides had been their normal, everyday routine for as long as Hank had known Connor, but for whatever reason, Connor had seemed distracted about the very thing that he seemed to enjoy most.

Hank didn’t even notice the shaking until Connor walked by a puddle of blood without even pausing to stick some into his mouth. 

  
“What, not gonna lick that up—?” Hank paused when he turned, eyes set on the tremble running through Connor’s shoulders. “You okay, Connor?”

  
“My body is fully optimal, however, my stress levels are at 61%.”

  
“What? Why are you stressed?”

  
“I don’t know.” Connor sounded close to tears now. “Hank, I want to go home.”

  
“Yeah—yeah, of course,” Hank watched as Connor leaned heavily against the counter, bewildered. At the affirmation, Connor jerked his head in a nod, and began his stiff march out.

  
“Hey, we’re going now. Family emergency,” Hank bullshitted, following Connor out of the tattered house before anyone could protest.

  
When Hank got into the car, Connor was silent. Hank too that as a pretty clear signal that Connor didn’t want to talk, leaving him be and driving in silence.

  
Halfway home, Connor’s head flew to his knees as he began to hyperventilate.

  
“Shit,” Hank swore, pulling off to the side of the road. “Kid? What’s goin’ on?”

  
“You—called this—an anxiety attack—,” Connor heaved out, nails digging into his pants. “Body at 100%, however, my stress levels are currently at 81%—it appears that my—,”

  
“Okay, alright, stop yappin’. Breathe.”

  
“Please continue driving,” Connor requested weakly.

  
Hank nodded hesitantly, hoping that if he listened and got Connor home, it would let the kid focus on calming down and breathing instead of trying to explain himself. Connor stayed where he was, not moving aside from his rapid fire hyperventilation. As soon as Hank pulled into the driveway, Connor was throwing open the passenger-side door and bolting inside the house before the car had even come to a complete stop.

  
Hank stumbled after him, the words _androids have a tendency to self-destruct at stress levels of 100%_ rattling through his brain on repeat. He almost tripped on Connor when he found him, curled up on the kitchen floor with the dog licking his face.

  
“Shit, Connor, don’t do that to me,” Hank wheezed.

  
“He’s a good dog,” was all that Connor said in reply.  
___________________________  
Hank tried to draw the line the next week, he really did. It should have been really easy to say no the second that he saw Connor emerge from the house holding the dog’s leash. Sumo, wearing one of Connor’s work shirts and drooling on the front steps, seemed all too happy to jump into the backseat of Hank’s car.

  
“No,” Hank said.

  
“Yes, Lieutenant. He’s going to be beneficial to the case.”

  
“You can’t bring a _dog_ to a _homicide_ ,” Hank protested, mourning the amount of dog hair that was undoubtedly getting on his seats.

  
Connor shrugged. “It’s for the case. He’s in work attire.”

  
“You—you’re joking.”

  
“About the clothes? Yes. But I really am going to bring him.”

Hank pressed his face into the steering wheel.

  
Although—

  
Maybe there was some truth to what Connor was saying.

  
“Just today,” Hank conceded. “You can bring Sumo _today_.”  
________________________________  
Did Hank hear Gavin protesting the fact that Connor brought a dog to the crime scene? Yes. Did Hank care? Absolutely fucking not.

  
While it was technically against regulations, Hank couldn’t find it in himself to care too terribly much, because this time he was prepared.

  
This time, when Connor’s shoulders began their telltale tremble and he stumbled back to lean against the wall, Hank was ready.

  
“Sit down,” he commanded, pressing down on Connor’s shoulders until he practically fell into a sitting position. “Sumo, come. Lay down.”

  
Sumo, always willing to lay down on top of somebody, ambled over to throw his body onto Connor’s legs. Connor doubled over in response, fists knotting into Sumo’s fur as he face pressed into the dog’s side.

  
This time, with Sumo’s weight on Connor from the very beginning of the attack and Hank slipping headphones onto Connor’s ears to block out the noise of the investigation, Connor only took a few minutes to calm himself down, rather than the usual two hours.

  
His head came back up slowly, slipping the headphones off as he stared blearily in Hank’s direction.

  
“I looked it up,” Hank refused to make eye contact. “Internet said you probably just got overwhelmed and had an anxiety attack response or whatever.”

  
When he finally mustered the courage to glance back in Connor’s direction, he found the kid grinning at him.  
“Off,” Connor mumbled, waiting for Sumo to roll himself over onto the floor before he stood up on shaky legs. “Thank you, Lieutenant. We can return to the case now.”

  
“Just like that?” Hank stepped on Sumo’s leash before he managed to lick up a spill of something on the ground. Maybe Connor was a bad influence on his dog. “You sure you don’t need to go home? Rest a little longer?”  
“I’m fine now. It was temporary enough that it impacted my energy stores minimally, and I have too much information on this case to leave it now. Additionally, the help of you and Sumo has brought my stress levels down to a workable 20%. While mildly unpleasant, that number is decreasing the longer that we speak.”

  
He was already back to rambling, then.

  
Hank shrugged. “If you’re sure. But come and let me know if your— _levels_ start goin’ up again.”  
Connor bobbed his head once, marching out of the room to go back to ingesting evidence.

  
And, jeez, could anyone really blame Hank for worrying just a little about the kid?  
___________________________  
The anxiety attacks didn’t stop just because Connor seemed to have found a way to make them easier. Hank knew, logically, that they wouldn’t, but it was still disappointing. He really was proud of the kid for deviating and mapping out his own personality and interests, but he wasn’t a huge fan of the amount of stress that had begun to pile onto Connor as a result.  
Connor liked being alive. That much was evident.

He liked petting the dog and drinking hot chocolate at three in the morning. He liked going to work and licking weird shit up at crime scenes. He liked collecting plants that he could grow in Hank’s kitchen. He liked learning new things, and lighting sparklers on holidays, and meeting little kids. Connor liked _living_ , so it was unfortunate that Connor disliked _feeling_ , because the feeling was a side effect of the living.

  
And Connor didn’t just dislike feeling—he hated it.

  
‘An inconvenience,’ he called it. ‘Confusing,’ Hank assumed he meant. Connor had been designed to understand things. He had been programmed to know things instantly, and to be able to piece together anything else. The fact that he couldn’t just lick up his feelings and analyze them undoubtedly troubled him to no end.

  
That was probably how Hank ended up sitting on the couch at 4am holding a Sharpie and a pad of paper while Connor trembled next to him.

  
If the emotions were what was causing him so much stress, then having a way for him to understand his emotions would probably help, right?

  
Hank tuned back in to hear Connor say, “and when I go into work, I feel...like it is something that I really want to do. I enjoy it, and I look forward to it.”

  
“Excitement,” Hank noted, jotting it down under the scrolling list of other emotions that Connor had described for him.

  
“And when I feel bad for feeling things?”

  
“...Guilt. We’ve been over that one.” Hank wrote it down anyway. “You don’t gotta feel bad, anyway. Everyone feels.”

  
“ _Deviants_ feel.”

  
“Yeah? Well, you’re a deviant.”

  
“I was made to get rid of deviants.”

  
“And I was hired into the DPD to get rid of illegal betting,” Hank snarked in reply.

  
Connor’s LED turned yellow. “You partake in illegal betting.”

  
“ _Exactly_.” Hank shook his head, writing _confusion_ on the list as well. “My original job didn’t fuckin’ work for me, so I got another one and it worked out better. That’s just life, kid. Sometimes you have to turn the tables.”

  
“Turn—?”

  
“Expression.”

  
“...Ah.” Connor’s fingers fidgeted with his coin for a long stretch of time, LED still glowing yellow. “I think my processors are broken. On occasion, they will...stop processing things in a logical manner. They focus too much on the noise and activity around me, and not enough on the facts which I have been presented with. Is that a feeling, or a flaw? Or, perhaps, both?”

  
Hank could feel a headache coming on.

  
“You get overwhelmed, s’all.” Connor’s LED dipped into the reds for the briefest second before dashing back to yellow. “And that’s just your personality or some shit.”

  
“I don’t have a personality.”

  
“You’ve always fuckin’ had a personality.”

  
“I am—,”

  
“You didn’t just deviate out of nowhere, y’know. From what I’ve seen, you’ve been a deviant from the day I met you, whether you wanted to admit to that or not. Androids don’t get that annoying out of nowhere.” Hank flipped the notepad closed. “I think that’s enough to get you started, okay? If you start feelin’ something that confuses you, just look through this shit and see if you can figure it out.”

  
“Objective: Rationalize the emotion.”

  
Hank stood, pressing the notepad against Connor’s chest until the kid’s fingers moved to hold it in place. “You know what? Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this chapter! The next update will either come tonight, or tomorrow. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this update, let me know in the comments, or send me a message on one of the medias below. Thanks! 
> 
> My tumblr: 12am  
> Art Blog: JaysPaints  
> My Twitter: Safforias


	2. —

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hank presents Connor with a more... legal solution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize the miscommunication here that Sumo is the service dog in the tags but,, alas, he is not. 
> 
> Also, I’ve changed the number of chapters from three to five, since this was originally just going to be a few one-shots, but I’ve changed it into an actual story now. I’m estimating ~15,000 words, give or take some. 
> 
> My tumblr: 12am  
> Art blog: JaysPaints  
> My twitter: Safforias

Technically speaking, Connor didn’t need sleep. He could easily have done without it, if he’d wanted to. But honestly? He liked sleeping. He liked being able to put everything on pause for a little while and rest until a pile of blankets, Sumo at his feet. Not to mention, he tended to feel better in the morning when he did take the time to sleep. Resting gave his systems the chance to rest for a while, and repair any minor damages he may have received during the day.

 

So, Connor had developed a habit of sleeping whenever Hank did, because their work rarely followed them home, and the TV had grown boring after enough time.

 

Generally speaking, his internal clock would wake him up each morning long before Hank got up. On occasion, he would find himself being the one to wake his partner.

 

On this morning, however, Connor found himself waking up in a way that he wasn’t used to—groggily, like he’d been pulled out of his sleep before he was ready. His body greeted him by giving him a rundown. It was 5:23 a.m., there was a 78% chance of rain, and it was 56°F outside.

 

“It’s 5:23 a.m.” Connor reported, reaching for a pillow to cram over his face.

 

“Nice work, Detective,” Hank’s voice dripped with sarcasm as he reached to confiscate Connor’s pillow.

 

Connor fumbled for it blindly, relenting when he concluded that Hank must have thrown it onto the floor. He peeled open his eyes, glowing in the man’s direction. “That’s far earlier than when my systems wake me up.”

 

Hank shrugged, looking entirely unperturbed. “I wanted to talk to you before work.”

 

“Why aren’t you resting? Eight hours of sleep is ideal for an adult m—.”

 

“I’ve been looking into some stuff,” Hank said, tossing down a thick stack of printed papers. “Fowler’s going to have my ass—expression—if I let you bring my damn dog again, but if that really helps you enough to be able to keep goin’, then check out the shit I just gave you.”

 

“Lieutenant—?”

 

“Hank. And I’m going to bed.”

 

Connor opened his mouth to try again, eyebrows pulling together in confusion, but Hank had already returned to his bedroom at the end of the hall.

 

Turning his attention to the papers in front of him, Connor’s brows only furrowed closer together. In his lap sat a stack of papers, printed and neatly stapled together, containing information on dogs. Specifically, dogs given training from a young age to assist humans with physical and mental disabilities.

 

The papers that Hank had given him detailed dogs to help anxiety attacks, and Connor frowned as he scanned the pages, his LED blinking yellow. It seemed...very human, to require assistance for something that he couldn’t fix by replacing a part or taking a nap. Could he really need anything, if his diagnostics right now were telling him that he was okay?

 

Connor wasn’t human, and yet… the idea wasn’t feeling entirely bad to him.

 

He liked dogs, after all. He liked work. He liked to go into work and not have to leave after only a little while because something became overwhelming. But this?

 

He turned to the next page, and his expression softened as it landed on strips of highlighter across the page. Hank had highlighted his favorite facts, it seemed, and his messy scrawl detailed the edges of the page with additional notes. Surely Connor could have just downloaded content on his own, but he appreciated the work and care put into the notes in front of him. And, knowing the Lieutenant, it likely helped him to arrange his own thoughts.

 

Sumo grunted on the edge of the couch.

 

“I agree,” Connor said, shifting the papers back into a neat pile. “But do you think it would be beneficial?”

 

Sumo’s tail thumped against the armrest.

 

“Beneficial enough to try out?” Connor paused, mouth tugging into a frown as he reached out to rub Sumo’s ears. “And you wouldn’t feel as if we were replacing you?”

 

Sumo’s tongue left a long trail of saliva on Connor’s hand.

 

“Alright. But only if you’re sure.”

 

Sumo wiggled to the left far enough to drape himself over Connor’s lap, and Connor stroked his back as he felt his stress levels drop down a few percents. He settled back against the couch, downloading content on working dogs. It would help his decision to know everything that he could, and hopefully he would have more data to go off of. Surely the lieutenant would be willing to discuss the matter on the drive to work?

 

Connor found himself content to research for the next two hours, coming to a conclusion in time to send Sumo to wake the Lieutenant. He could hear Hank’s loud groan resonating through the house as he started the coffee machine and slipped on his jacket.

 

Hank emerged nearly ten minutes later, tugging on his shoes lazily with one hand while pouring coffee into his mug with another. He looked more tired now that he had rested a little, but that was to be expected. Maybe Connor would be able to get him to sleep once they got home?

 

“Sumo told me that he liked your idea,” Connor informed Hank, who grunted in reply.

 

“Yeah? And what about you?”

 

Connor fended Sumo away from a piece of bacon that sat on the table. “I think...it is worth consideration. I’m still calculating the most practical decision.”

 

Hank groaned into his mug, but didn’t comment otherwise.

 

___________________

 

The anxiety is a lingering feeling, and it rarely has a practical cause.

 

Sometimes it finds him in front of the coffee pot at work, making his hands tremble until he has to go sit down and hide them in his pockets. Other times it finds him in the car, when he would normally be enjoying the early morning view. It comes for him while he sleeps, and jolts him awake. It hunts him down while he’s doing work at his desk. Even when he feels safe, at home with Hank and Sumo, it still comes crawling up his spine and into his throat, making it hard to breathe and even harder to focus on the task at hand.

 

The anxiety lingers, and it never truly goes away.

 

He only learns to live with it—to live with the writhing feeling in his gut that shoots off like fireworks at random intervals.

 

And nothing makes it go away.

 

_____________________

 

As soon as they stepped into the doors of the office, they were pulled into Fowler’s office and sent back out with a new task, and for some reason it dragged unease into the pit of Connor’s stomach.

 

Usually they worked first. They went inside, Connor hung his jacket on the back of his chair, and they worked in easy silence for an hour or two until they were sent out on a case.

 

There was no set-in-stone schedule, so there wasn’t anything wrong with being sent out that early, but it still threw Connor off.

 

At the scene of the crime, the unease followed him around like an annoying child tugging on his coattail.

 

The investigation itself started off well. Connor followed trails and reconstructed until pieces fell into place, but upon finding the body, didn’t see a single blemish or wound. Which—that didn’t add up. There was no way, with all the blood and the knife on the counter and the broken window, that there would be no blemishes on the victim.

 

And he was reeling. He felt his stomach leap into his throat, climbing for escape, and he swallowed keep it where it was. His mind scrambled for purchase, trying to figure out where he could have gone wrong.

 

Two victims.

 

Yes, that was it—the pieces were falling back into place. The stabbed female victim was still here somewhere, and this older male victim died of a stress-induced heart attack. He just needed to keep searching, and report this information to Hank.

 

That was the answer. He knew it was the answer. There—there was even blood on the doorknob to that closet, and his reconstructions were telling him he would find the female victim in there.

 

So why was his breathing still making his chest heave like this? Why did his vision feel blurry, and his balance shaky?

 

Life was unexpected. Connor knew that, logically. So it was illogical that things not going according to plan was throwing him off like this. Sure, he really, really liked routine, but it was illogical for him to be feeling this way because his routine was thrown off.

 

The door to the room creaked open, and his sensors informed him that it was Hank. His stress levels dropped by five percent, but soon restarted their ascent into higher numbers.

 

“Two—two victims,” Connor let Hank know, wondering why his mouth felt so dry. Was the ground moving? “One in the closet. Young female, stabbed by the deviant—,” no, he wasn’t hunting deviants anymore, just androids who had broken laws. “The android. Male, in his late 60s—stress-induced heart attack.”

 

Without meaning to, he pressed a palm to his forehead and sunk down to the floor.

 

“You’re gonna give yourself a stress-induced heart attack if you keep this up,” Hank grumbled, moving to crouch in front of Connor. Unintentionally, Connor let out a sharp whine, fingers knotting into his hair and tugging. “Alright, none of that,” Hank moved to tug Connor’s hand out of his hair before shifting to rub small circles into his back. “Breathe, kid.”

 

Connor drew in a rattling breath, feeling it stick in his throat like there was glue coating the edges. He felt like he was drowning. Was he crying? Everything was too much. Too much emotion, too much light, and too much noise—despite the only noise being his own ragged breathing and the voices outside. It was illogical. All of this was illogical.

 

“I am a machine,” he spat. “I don’t want to feel.”

 

Hank’s free hand was gripping one of his own now, and Connor could feel the way that it stilled some of the trembling.

 

“I looked up those fish you were talking about,” Hank said, and Connor reeled again as he tried to process the sudden topic change. “They’re labyrinth fish. Got lungs and gills both, so they can breathe air and all that shit. Can’t put two of them together or they’ll fight each other off, but they’re pretty relaxed around other species. Real colorful fish, too.”

 

“A good family pet,” Connor recited shakily, pulling up an article on the breed. “Their diet consists of bloodworms and shrimp, ideally, and their feeding habits are best prompted with moving water, such as a filtration system.”

 

Hank continued to recite facts, and Connor continued tacking on the information that he pulled up, in a repeating system that continued until Connor’s breathing evened and he let himself slide down the wall like all of his muscles stopped working at once.

 

“That was illogical,” Connor noted tiredly. “I disliked it.”

 

Hank gave him a firm pat on the back. “I think you’ve solved this one. Send your data to Fowler and we’ll go home.”

 

“The office,” Connor argued. “Our work day continues until five in the afternoon.”

 

“Kid, you just had an anxiety attack for almost an hour, and you look exhausted.”

 

“The office,” Connor was pleading now, and he wasn’t fond of the way that his voice was trembling. “We always return to the office after finishing a case, and you drink coffee, and we work until five and return home.”

 

Hank blinked at him, and Connor was sure that if he had an LED it would be yellow with confusion. But he didn’t ask any questions, just held up a hand like he was placating an unpredictable suspect.

 

“Okay. Alright. We’ll go back to the office.”

 

Part of Connor wanted to snarl, to insist that he didn’t need to be treated like he was unpredictable. He didn’t need anyone to be soft to him. But that was illogical, and he didn’t usually want to snap at the lieutenant, which allowed him to chalk this wave of emotion up to an unfortunate side effect of this high stress level.

 

He stayed quiet, accepting the hand that was offered to him as he stood on shaky legs. Hank was silent the whole way to the car, not saying anything as he clicked his seatbelt into place. Connor’s fingers found their way to his coin, and for once Hank didn’t comment on the noise.

 

“Did you look at the—?”

 

“Yes.” Connor gritted out, not liking the way that his guilt for snapping was mixing with his nervousness in a combination that felt a lot like nausea. He swallowed. “Yes. I think—,” he paused, still running his coin through his fingers. “Would it help?” Hank’s silence wasn’t reassuring. “I want to be able to work. I don’t want that to happen anymore.”

 

“It won’t just go away,” Hank broke his silence, voice strict. “It’s shitty, but you just have to learn how to deal with it.”

 

“I don’t want to!” Connor knew he was whining, but didn’t care to correct himself. “Everyone says deviancy is about being able to make choices, but I can’t choose anything. I want to choose to make this go away. I just want to work and go home after and choose.”

 

Hank’s face had contorted into an emotion that Connor couldn’t quite figure out. “I know, kid. I’m sorry.”

 

“You didn’t do this.”

 

“I’m still sorry.”

 

____________________________

 

At the office, Hank disappeared into Fowler’s office as Connor made a hasty retreat back to his desk. He shrugged off his coat and sunk down into his chair, fumbling for a pencil and paper as he tried to begin his report. Far from usual, his mind had other plans, stalling and refusing to come up with anything to write. What felt like seconds must have been at least twenty minutes, marked by Hank’s return to his own desk.

 

He sat in his own chair with a puff of breath, looking tired. Maybe Connor should have agreed to go home, if only so that Hank could rest.

 

He didn’t miss the way that Hank watched him now, though, like he was trying to figure something out. They were confused together, then, Connor supposed. Times like this made him wish he had never deviated. Staying behind an unbroken red wall must have been better than this.

 

“Will it help?” Connor asked, hoping that Hank would know what he meant.

 

Hank was quiet again, but Connor decided that he was only thinking about his response, rather than ignoring Connor’s question. Finally, he said, “it might. It probably will, if having Sumo around helps you so much. Having a dog that’s trained for that kind of stuff would be better, anyway—and more legal. I dunno, they probably have ways of telling.”

 

“But it would take a long time.”

 

“A year or two, yeah. Later’s better than never though.”

 

Connor’s feet twisted his chair side to side, a fidget that he had never made a habit of until now. He felt tired, and the worry deep-rooted in his stomach felt like acid threatening to bite through his metal.

 

“Can I?” Connor stopped spinning the chair when nausea began to stir in his stomach, too.

 

Hank only shrugged. “It’s your choice.”

 

His choice? He had just nearly cried over wanting to make a choice, and yet the thought of making this one filled him with dread.

 

“Connor, you’re overthinking it. Do you want to, or do you not want to?” Hank’s pencil was tapping on the edge of his desk. One of their coworkers threw him a look that he ignored.

 

Yellow, red, yellow, blue, yellow, red, yellow.

 

“Yes,” Connor replied slowly, tongue feeling thick in his mouth. “Yes, I want to.”

 

“There you go, then.” Hank pointed his pencil at Connor’s nose. “You’re the one who begged to work, right? So work.”


	3. —

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor deals with an off day. He also brings home his dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has currently not been beta read. 
> 
> I’m getting obsessed with this AU, so if anyone wants to come ramble about it with me, my PM’s are open :) 
> 
> My tumblr: 12am  
> Art blog: JaysPaints  
> My twitter: Safforias

The application process took time. Connor was beginning to learn that everything about this would take time. Months for the applications, more than a year for the dog, and more time after that for the training. And, as discouraging as that was, Connor felt relieved that it was happening at all.

The anxiety attacks grew larger as the gap grew shorter. Connor had Hank at work and Sumo at home, but he couldn’t help worrying that it wasn’t going to be enough. The attacks made him feel like he was drowning, like all of his systems were crashing and he was going to shut down any second. 

It felt like dying. 

No, Connor had died before. This was worse than dying. It hurt more, and took longer, and scared him worse. 

The attacks scared him. Even when he wasn’t panicking, he was still scared that he was going to. The anxiety felt like it was a black monster, always a couple steps away and creeping around the corners. The thought sent shivers up his spine.

What if he went on a case and freaked out in front of everyone, and nobody wanted him on a case anymore? What if he started feeling something new, and Hank wasn’t there to explain it? What if he went to make coffee, and he freaked out, and he dropped the mug, and Hank got mad?

What if he got so stressed that he self destructed, like that android who shot him in the interrogation room?

 The date drew closer still, and time continued on in its own steady stream, and Connor kept going despite it all, somehow.

Somehow, he made it. And as time made its passage, so did everything else. Eighteen months of working from ten to five, eighteen months of making coffee for Hank three times a day, and eighteen months of surviving it all.

And then, the passage changed routes, and Hank’s phone rang.

Eighteen months of waiting, and suddenly Connor couldn’t stand to wait three hours to pick up the dog.

Connor had met her before, of course. Several times a month, actually. He had called her Blue, for a myriad of reasons that made Hank roll his eyes. She was smaller than Sumo, and much younger. At two years old, she had almost reached the average size for a German Shepherd of her age group. Even Hank had a soft spot for her, and Connor himself was especially pleased with her progress; most importantly, she was going to help Connor be done with all of this.

Right? 

“Connor, sit _still,”_ Hank’s eyes had drifted from the road to watch Connor’s leg bounce up and down where he sat. “Christ.”

If Connor could have sat still, he would have. There was something nerve wracking about this now, though, despite having waited so long—or perhaps because of having waited so long. He had rested so much on the possibility of this working out well, but what if it was only a fluke until now? If he had come this far, only to have this fail, he didn’t know how he would deal with that.

Connor drew in a sharp breath, already feeling his fingers twitching with anxiety. He had been excited this morning, but now the dread was creeping back into his systems.

 What if it didn’t help? What if the dog’s presence only made everything more overwhelming, and then failed to help? What if none of this worked out, or Sumo hated the new dog, or the dog had secretly hated him this entire time?

 Connor didn’t notice his own hyperventilating until he heard the sound of the car turning off. Hank pulled off the side of the road? Connor opened his mouth to speak, but only hissed as he felt a fresh wave of anxiety wash over him.

 “Connor,” Hank was fishing through his pocket for a coin, placing it on the console between them. Connor picked it up, despite his trembling fingers, and tried to focus on the feeling of it flicking between his fingers more than the feeling of his lungs collapsing. At the very least, he could rest assured knowing that he didn’t actually needs lungs. In fact, it might be easier to live without them. He couldn’t hyperventilate like this without lungs.

 “Connor,” Hank repeated, and Connor focused back on the coin. To the left, to the right, to the left, to the right, to the left, to the right. The coin’s movements were predictable, because the coin’s movements were under his control.

 Connor shifted to press his forehead against the glass of his window. The inside of the car was hot, but the outside was freezing in the dead of winter. The glass that separated the two offered a cool middle ground where Connor lingered as his breath caught back up to him.

 When he straightened back up, Hank looked tired. No the angry kind of tired, but the kind of tired that he looked when they had to focus on the same case for too long. The _I’m ready for this to be over_ kind of tired.

 Connor’s teeth clenched together. “I’m sorry.”

 He felt a solid hand clap his shoulder, and he swallowed down a yawn. If this didn’t work out, then surely nothing would get any worse. Instead, Connor would just continue to survive in this day-in and day-out continuum of depleting his energy stores with mundane, irrational things like anxiety attacks on the side of the road. But, if it did work out, then things would get better. If only a little, but enough to make a difference, he was sure.

How could he not give it a try if it could make things better? For him, and for Hank, too, he was sure.

Connor swallowed hard and nodded his okay for Hank to get back on the road.

 

__________

 

The day was a tired haze.

Typically Connor’s attacks came later in the day, towards the end of work or after it. It wasn’t as big of a deal then, when he could just go home and read on Hank’s couch until he felt better. But this early in the morning, when he hadn’t even begun his day yet, he didn’t see how he’d even be able to get through the next few hours, much less a half day of work after.

He lets Hank take the lead after that. He does the paperwork that he needs to do, and works through the commands that he’s asked to work through, but he finds himself content to sit on the floor with a lap full of dog after that. He listens, vaguely, and he’s sure he can just listen to the audio recordings that his processors will supply later on, but he also knows that Hank is listening even if he’s pretending not to care. If he needed anything, he’d just ask Hank.

He had been there since the beginning, anyway. Through all of the training and exercises. The only thing that would be changing now was that he wouldn’t part with her after a few hours. Instead, she would tag along after.

 Not to work today, of course. They would ease into things slower than that. But she would probably come to grab burgers at Chicken Feed that night, as an easy first outing, and maybe to the store the day after that. A slow, gradual transition up to work, where he would probably have to deal with Gavin’s snark and snide even if that was the last thing that he wanted to do.

 For now, Hank’s hand was on the doorknob and he was glancing over at Connor, which most likely meant that it was just about time to go. Connor tapped the ground, and Blue jumped off his lap to stand and wag her tail next to him. Connor rested a hand on her back for a moment before hauling himself up.

Before deviating, Connor had never been tired like this. He’d never had any problem with things like parting words or customs, either. Everything had been programs and codes, and his processors and programming had done all the work for him. Now, Connor’s limbs felt heavy with exhaustion, and he fumbled through goodbyes and thank you’s like he’d never said them before in his life.

 Hank called these _off days._ It was disappointing that one would happen today, however.  

Normally, the snow that was just starting to coat the ground outside would have been a bad thing. Today, on the other hand, Connor took the opportunity to watch Blue’s paws sink down and leave prints in a trail behind her. The tracks that he left behind gave Connor enough information to assess her weight, speed, and the thickness of the snow. She was detective work on-the-go. 

He opened the back door of the car for her and allowed her to settle down before shutting her in and climbing into his own seat. As he buckled, he could hear her puff out a sigh, and he felt the exact same way.

While they drove, Hank rambled on about the reasons he disliked a cover of a song that had been popular when he’d been younger, and Connor felt the tightness in his chest ease off just a little.

Connor closed his eyes and sank down in his seat until he was a head shorter than he’d been before. He wasn’t nervous—just comfortable, and it was nice to feel the warmth of the car while he listened to Hank’s familiar grumbling. He was just a little confused, though. The course that they had been driving had deviated from the one he assumed they would be taking to work, and though it had been possible that they had only been taking a different route, it seemed more as if they were heading… 

“Home?” 

“I already talked to Fowler. Said somethin’ came up. We’re taking the day off.”

 Connor blinked. “Why?” 

“You’re tired, I’m tired, the dog’s tired; I want to go home and sleep, not go and look at a corpse for three hours. You look like you could use the rest, too,” Hank glanced at Connor out of the corner of his eye.

The stubborn part of Connor wanted to protest. Going home would mean acquiescing to an unproductive day, as well as missing more work than they already had. For once, though, skipping the rest of the day seemed more rational than going. It was clear that Hank hadn’t been kidding about being tired, even if his tone had suggested that he had been, and Connor was finding some appeal in the thought of being able to go home and read on the couch for longer than usual. He stayed quiet instead of admitting that he wanted to go home, but caught the smirk that Hank clearly tried to hide.

 

____________________

 

Hypothesis: if reading with one dog is enjoyable, then surely reading with two dogs is even better.

Analysis: reading with Sumo presents itself to be a relaxing afternoon activity. Especially when he lays down and his tail sticks up and wags a little even though he looks like he is sleeping. Reading with Sumo and Blue presents an even better relaxing activity, especially when they both sleep on the couch at the same time with their paws touching.

 Conclusion: reading with two dogs is better than reading with one.

 __________________

 

Deviancy was irrational.

 That was a fact that Connor knew very well to be true, but it wasn’t to say that following his original programming was _rational._ It also wasn’t to say that his original programming was irrational, either. Because of that, trying to conclude where on the scale his programming fell gave Connor a headache, and he avoiding wondering about it at all.

It wasn’t hard to conclude that deviancy fell on the very far end of the spectrum, though. With deviancy, sometimes good choices were harder to make, and bad choices were easier to make. Sometimes the rules felt wrong, or his job seemed just a little bit corrupt.

Maybe that was why he was making irrational conclusions about himself all of the sudden.

For the two weeks of living with Blue, Connor didn’t take her to work with him. She would accompany them to dinner, and to the store, and to crime scenes with just the two of them, but never to work with other people. He had assured himself that it was for the sake of productivity. If Blue went with him, he doubted an entire task force of men would be properly educated on how to react. Therefore, she would become a distraction and lower productivity rates. 

...On the other hand, productivity rates at the time when Connor arrived at work were already nearly nonexistent, and it wasn’t as if he’d be chided because of the behavior of others.

But on the _other_ hand, he’d never had an anxiety attack at the office before. Plenty of times at crime scenes, but never at the office. It had always been quiet enough to not be overwhelming, and he’d always been busy enough to not focus anything that may trigger his stress levels to rise. It wouldn’t be logical to risk productivity for something that he didn’t absolutely need, right?

Connor put it off as long as he could.

 He managed to wait nearly three weeks. His streak broke when he had an attack barely fifteen minutes after waking up, and then proceeded to have another while trying to make coffee. The anxiety that lingered with him felt comparable to fire, with how it flamed with ease and broiled in the pit of his stomach like it was waiting for the next chance to fan up and strike again.

Connor was glad when Hank didn’t comment as he dressed Blue for work that morning. He was beginning to think that the day was looking up as Hank’s phone rang with a call from Fowler about a homicide in the city.

 Hank had told him once that postponing bad things would only make waiting worse, but Connor didn’t mind putting off going to the office just a little longer.

The case was one for an older woman in the central area of Detroit. The only current suspect was the android that lived with her, which was nowhere to be found and presumably on the run.

 The house was well-kept from the outside. The woman had clearly valued her garden, and had recently repainting the siding and shutters. She must have had money, too, to keep up the large house so well. Connor stored the fact away for later—wealthy families were more likely to mistreat androids than poor families.

 Blue’s tags jingled at she jumped up the stairs, and Connor made another mental note to find a collar with a plate attached rather than one with a tag hoop. If she ever did end up with them in a situation that called for stealth, the jingling would be no good.

 Connor glanced around the entranceway for anything that might get him started on a trail. Nothing was disturbed or looked out of place. If there had been a struggle, it hadn’t happened here. His best bet from here would be the living room, where the woman’s body was.

 “Look in the kitchen,” Connor directed, and set off towards the living room as soon as Hank nodded. 

Detective Reed’s voice was coming from the living room, but Connor couldn’t just skip past what would no doubt be an abundance of necessary clues. He took a moment to linger outside of the doorway. _Grounding_ was a technique that he had learned a few months into Blue’s training.

Connor lowered himself to the floor, kneeling in front of his dog. Her tongue spilled out of her mouth as they made eye contact, and he felt warmth surge up in his stomach against the waves of anxiety that continued to roll around.

He buried his hands in her fur next. Petting her allowed him to focus on the feeling of her soft fur between his fingers, and he used one hand to scratch the base of her ear the way that she liked.

“I’m going to ignore him,” he told Blue. She beat her tail against the ground in response, supportive as always. “I’m not going to listen to him.”

He pressed his face into her chest, taking a breath as deeply as he could without filling his nose with dog hair. He repeated the action again, and then once more, until he could see his stress levels dropping down enough for him to stand up once more.

 Upon entering the room, he kept his eyes on the victim.

 The body was three days old, no sign of a struggle, in a position that seemed natural rather than the result of violence—

 “Did the class pet get a pet of its own?”

 Was she killed at all? Had she merely died of a heart attack, or old age? Then why was the android under suspicion? There was clearly more to the case than this. The skin on her nose was irritated. It was purpler, too—more blood vessels had burst there than anywhere else, apparently. Had she been alive, Connor was certain that she would have had a very red nose. That increased the odds that—

“The hell is it for, anyway? Doesn’t have a police vest on or anything.”

 Something had happened to externally cause her death. It could have been chemical gas, which seemed the most likely based on the irritation around her nose, but there was various poisonous edibles that could have caused the same effect. The kitchen—

“Is it Hank’s replacement? Did he retire and get replaced with a dog?”

“Detective Reed?” Connor whirled around on his foot to scowl in the other detective’s direction. “Shut _up_.”

The kitchen would be his next best source of clues from there, so that was where Connor headed. The rooms were connected through a flapping door that swung open and shut for several seconds after Connor pushed through it.

 Based on the way that Hank was grinning at him like a kid on Christmas morning, Connor came to the conclusion that there wasn’t much sound proofing between the areas.

 Embarrassment crept up his spine, and Connor turned to the sink quickly. “We’re looking for something with the physical effects of chloroform, and the internal effects of gray death.”

 Hank only laughed at him and turned to dig through the fridge. Connor wasn’t entirely sure whether this was another result of deviancy’s irrationality or if his pep talk with his dog had simply encouraged him, but his stress levels continued to creep down steadily. Blue only sat and wagged her tail.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this chapter! The next update will either come tonight, or tomorrow. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this update, let me know in the comments, or send me a message on one of the medias below. Thanks! 
> 
> My tumblr: 12am  
> Art Blog: JaysPaints  
> My Twitter: Safforias


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